When Alan Rickman died a few years ago I was so upset. One of my favourite actors, seemingly able to act effortlessly, full of charisma and charm and humour. So I was looking forward to reading his diaries which have just been published.
Well, it has been said that one should never meet one's heroes. I now feel that one should never read the diaries of one's heroes. I found myself totally discombobulated by the character which emerged from these writings. I have said it many times, and will no doubt again, that when you read a diary the true personality and the author permeates the page. There is no hiding place. Years ago I read the musings of Sir Laurence Olivier, widely regarded (not by me incidentally) as one of the world's greatest actors. The conceit and vanity that emanated from his writing was palpable. Noel Coward – now his diaries are witty and amusing and astringent, but above all, kind. The Richard Burton diaries were an outpouring of an emotional man who held nothing back and who owned up to his faults, warts and all and they were simply wonderful.
After Alan Rickman died the number of assorted thesps and colleagues who rushed to say what a great person he was, how kind, how he had helped them with their career, how thoughtful he had been, were legion. So it comes as a shock to read Madly, Deeply and discover his real thoughts on the aforesaid friends and fellow actors.
Alexander Larman, who writes for the Spectator, has recently reviewed these diaries and writes that "the abiding impression is that it is miserable to be an actor in demand. There is endless complaining about long plane journeys, interminable times spent in make up or waiting to go on set, meetings with ignorant financiers and rapacious agents and co-stars who did not meet Rickman's exacting professional standards"
Dismissive, caustic and rarely a good word to say for anybody and deeply obsessed with his own thoughts and pain these pages make for very uncomfortable reading. And, yes, irritating too as I felt myself snorting Of for goodness sake stop moaning, you have a life and a career that others would kill for and you are unhappy and miserable.
There were times when his anguish, such as it was, was expressed in terms that I found, for want of a better description, pure luvvie.
On starting a film "I have a feeling that the need is there throughout the unit, but there is a shyness at the top which coagulates unhappily with the arrogance factor and makes visible vulnerability impossible"
I struggled with this book, I freely admit it and also labour under a sense that I may be doing Rickman a disservice with this review. I so wanted to read it and love it and find out about the inner man.
Alexander Larman put his finger on it when he said "he seems a deeply unhappy stressed man, forever busy and exhausted by a punitive work scheule………a craft seemed to bring him enormous professional respect but little personal joy"
There is one entry that seemed to sum up my feelings after ploughing through the diaries. A director comes to see him on set. "for some reason he was on the attack. 'Would it hurt you to show some fucking charm?' I was stunned, asked him not to speak to me like that, he nearly stormed out……as I write this I'm still bewildered. Had people been nagging him?"
Rickman seems to have a total lack of understanding of how others might see him. Self obsessed to a startling degree but he must have hidden it well for the fulsome tributes following his death.
If I am being honest I wish I had not read this book.
Leave a Reply to ElaineCancel reply